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Last thing I remember is sliding into the passenger seat of Cash’s SUV. I’d closed my eyes because the bright lights of the never-ending traffic of New York had stung the over-worked eyes in my head. But it’d only been for a minute, right?
I search my memory for more, an elevator ride, entering the apartment, dropping down in bed.
Nothing.
What the hell? I sit up in bedand reach for the lamp, flooding the room in light. A quick glance at my phone tells me it’s four in the morning. I’m still wearing my clothes from the night before, but my boots are on the floor beside my bed.
I wore my boots through Cash’s apartment?
Why does my head feel so foggy?
Why can’t I remember coming to bed?
Pushing up, I move into the bathroom and pee. I don’t think I brushed my teeth, and I still have makeup on my face, which is oddest of all. I never sleep with makeup on. Every girl, even ones without mothers, know you don’t do that.
Pulling off my clothes, I tug a ratty old t-shirt over my head. It’s a beer box t-shirt. The ones you get when you buy a case, and the cash guy is feeling generous. Dad likes hisCoorsand would frequently get the shirts. As far back as I can remember, they’ve been my sleep shirts.
It’s soft and familiar on my skin in this unfamiliar place. I scrub the mascara from my eyes, brush my teeth, roll lavender oil behind my ears and on my inner wrists, and pad sleepily back to my bed. I set my alarm on my phone and snuggle under the covers. Even though I’m confused and a little worried I can’t remember my night, I fall back into sleep easily.
My alarm wakes me two hours later, and I’msonot ready to get up and face the world. With a groan, I slap out at my phone and then wince at the sharp pain in my head. Waking up on a Friday with a punishing headache isn’t fun. Going through the day with said headache is worse. Needing to get ahead of the pain, I push from the bed and move straight for the door. I’d seen a bottle of pain killer in one of the cabinets in the kitchen during one of my snoop sessions. I’m headed for that, not thinking of the fact that I’m wearing nothing but my panties under the beer t-shirt when I smack straight into a hard, naked chest.
“Oomph!” My hands rise to press against hot skin, and I jump back, tripping over my feet and nearly falling on my behind when a big hand reaches out to fist my shirt, yanking me back and steadying me.
Why does this crap always happen around him?
“Mornin’.”
“G’morning.” Peeling myself from his hold, I duck my head and start for the kitchen. “I just need a pain killer.”
“For what?” Cash follows me.
“Headache.” I refuse to look at him as I rise onto my tiptoes, trying to hook the bottle with the tips of my fingers. I can feel it—but it’sjustout of reach.
A warm body connects with my back and Cash raises his arm, grabbing the bottle and bringing itdown to the countertop for me. Slowly, I lower myself from my tiptoes. I say nothing as I pop the top and take two pills from the container. Then I slip from between his body and the countertop, grabbing a glass and filling it with enough water to down the pills.
Cash settles back into the counter beside me, hands planted against the stone surface, broad, bare chest on display. I avoid looking at him. In fact, he has the nicest wicker chandelier over his rustic looking dining table.
“What is that?”
I can’t help it when my eyes flick to him. “What’s what?”
“That smell.”
I inhale, searching for traces of smoke or natural gas or something equally as not right. I scowl. “I don’t smell anything.”
He leans in, his nose a breath away from my neck as he inhales deeply. I freeze.Oh my. How is it that this man, of all the men in this great big world, is the one to make me tingle?
It’s—wrong.
“You wearing perfume?”
I shake my head. My heart is pounding, the beats unsteady. “I don’t wear perfume. It’s probably my lavender—and maybe my lotion? That’s vanilla.”
“Lavender and vanilla.” Brows knit as he leans in, inhaling me a second time. “I like it.”
My entire body gets warm. I fight the urge to shift nervously away from him. “Um, I use it for anxiety. It—helps.”
Those hard eyes find mine. “Anxiety?”
